Page 120 of Hard to Hold

“I have an idea.” Let’s just hope it’s what I think it is.

“I once heard someone say that the measure of a man isn’t what he’ll do for himself, but what he’ll do at the expense of himself for others. If that’s the case, Rush McKenzie is truly a remarkable man. The kind of man who would let the entire world think it was him caught in an uncompromising position with a married woman instead of destroying a man struggling with depression. That man . . . meaning myself.”

There is an audible gasp from the crowd as well as the people standing to the left and right of Rory, who look stunned. I guess he didn’t tell anyone what he was going to say.

“Well, shit,” Chase murmurs in my ear.

“I’m the one in that photo with Esme that was printed in June. If the photographer would have moved to the left, you would have seen my tattoo,” he says, lifting up his hand to show the ink I can’t make out, “and this wouldn’t even be an issue. But Rush”—he shakes his head—“allowed you to believe it was him. Because at that time I wasn’t in a good place. I was depressed and had thoughts of ending my life. I’m a recovering addict . . . so he took the blame. He took the punches. He took the wrath so wrongly aimed at him by you. He left the country to allow the story to die down. He let everyone believe that image was of him and not me, because he knew that you would eat me up and spit me out without a second thought to the damage you’d done to me. He knew I’d break under your pressure. He was worried about my well-being more than his career. And not once did he defend himself. Not once did anyone ask him if the picture was actually him.”

Rory shakes his head again and takes a sip from his water bottle before continuing to a rapt audience.

“Oh my God,” Chase whispers.

“I know,” I whisper back. This is incredible.

“When the picture leaked of Esme and me, I was weak and let him take the blame, but not anymore. I can’t in good conscience allow what he was accused of yesterday to stand without speaking up.” He clears his throat. “Rush didn’t lay a hand on Esme. In fact, I don’t think he’s even met her. Seth Haskins, her husband, my teammate, and the person who made the accusation in the Daily Mail yesterday, is the person responsible for Esme’s injuries. How do I know this? Because over the past nine months, I’ve had to sit by and watch random bruises mar her skin. Seth has a bad game, a new bruise appears. She tells him she wants a divorce like she did four days ago, her eye is bruised so bad it’s swollen shut.”

“That’s a heavy accusation you’re making, Rory.”

Rory nods and meets the eyes of the reporter. “It is and I’m aware of that, but I have proof.” More gasps ring out, mine included. “Esme has provided footage from their in-home security camera of her assault to the police so she can press charges. Charges I’ve begged her to file for months, but fear and shame and public judgment have prevented her from acting. But not now. Not anymore.” More gasps. “A small clip of the “alleged” altercation will be provided to all networks as proof of what I’m saying here today.” He glances to the side of the stage and the reporters start murmuring as the camera pans to where Esme stands, sunglasses on, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Jesus, she’s actually there,” Chase murmurs, exactly what I’m thinking.

“I’m not standing up here to play the part of the saint. I was in the wrong. I had the affair with Esme. I was in the wrong allowing Rush to be held liable, and I’ll willingly take the consequences for my actions. But I will not, cannot, stand by and let you”—Rory points to the journalists—“crucify Rush McKenzie for something he didn’t do. Something he would never do.” He looks to the left to a sports agent I know in appearance before looking back to the press gallery. “I’ll make no further statements on the matter. Thank you for your time.”

The press erupts in a flurry of questions as I sit watching, open mouth and eyes wide, with Chase talking in my ear.

Rush is finally free.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

RUSH

I’M STANDING IN HEATHROW BAGGAGE claim, hat pulled low over my eyes, staring at Rory on the telly placed high in the corner, completely gobsmacked.

A million things run through my head.

What in the hell is he doing?

Will he be okay after doing this?

What is everyone going to think of me now?

The baggage claim carousel moves in loops at my back and my phone buzzes alerts over and over in my pocket, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the screen. From the blurred image the broadcasters keep showing of Esme trying to open a front door with Seth yanking on her from behind, fist cocked back and ready to fly. Even with the blurring of detail—for a modicum of respect perhaps?—you can still see how Haskins could easily overpower his own wife. I cannot fucking believe it. What he’s been doing to her. I’m seething in anger now, not only for what that animal is capable of, but knowing that he was willing to have people believe I did that.

And then another thought crosses my mind.

It’s over.

It’s finally fucking over.

I’m successful in keeping a low profile so I get out of the damn airport without being noticed. The minute I’m in the car park, I suck in a huge gasp of air as if it’s the first breath I’ve been able to take since I left here over four months ago.

I don’t have a car or a ride but I don’t care, because all I want is a few minutes of privacy. All I need is to hear Lennox’s voice.

When I look at my phone and the four missed calls from her, it seems she’s on the same page.

I pick up my mobile and dial.